Fine In The Fire
by A Quiet Morning
Summary: A rough night leads to a rougher day for Ed when phantom pain worms its way in. Set after FMA:B


I own nothing.

Took a little bit of artistic license that instead of Ed trading his alchemy, he traded his arm back for Al.

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**Fine In The Fire**

It started as an itch. That unpleasant feeling where if you try to ignore it, it just becomes more prominent and obnoxious.

Ed flipped in his bed. The nightmares woke him up. Nina, Barry the Chopper. They flitted through his mind in his sleep. He hadn't thought of either in ages. Nothing more than a fleeting, passing thought out of the blue at most. And yet, tonight, they domineered his mind. Punctuated by visions of his "mother" that he and all had brought back. He awoke with a start, sweating, gasping for air. The silence and darkness of his room pressed in on him from all sides. The only sound his ragged breath and thundering heart. Ed looked down at his mismatched hands. One metal, smooth, shiny, strong. The other, flesh, soft, calloused, feeling.

He had done what he had promised Al, gotten his body back. In exchange, kept the metal limbs. He had long since learned to live with them. He pressed the metal one to the back of his neck. Coolness radiated from it, soothing his over heated body. He closed his eyes and slumped forward, exhausted.

He glanced behind himself, to the softly sleeping form of Winry. He hadn't called out or thrashed in his sleep then, and for that he was grateful. She knew some of the demons that plagued him, but others, he kept to himself, quietly, buried away. Silently he got up from bed, reaching down to the floor to grab him pajama pants. With practiced ease, he slipped from the room, stepping over the creaky floorboard, lifting the handle on the doorknob just right so it wouldn't squeak. He padded silently downstairs to his study. Shelves lined the walls, bursting with books, a large mahogany desk in the room. He sunk into the chair, exhausted, elbows on the desk, head in his hands. How long had it been since he slept through the night? A few weeks? More? He knew the stress from work was eating at him, however there wasn't much he could do with it for now. Never ending cases he followed from Mustang, doing what he was told. They had found yet another case of an alchemist trying to make chimeras. It was brutal, godless work. The bodies they'd found... The blood... No wonder Nina was terrorizing his dreams. 10 years wasn't nearly long enough to quiet that demon, try as he might.

Sitting at his desk, he reached down to the drawer to his left. Pulling out the glass bottle, he stared at the amber liquid. Nearly half empty, it had become his cure for sleep. The nightmares quieted down when he was oblivious. Winry didn't notice anything other than his silence in the mornings, however that wasn't too abnormal for him anyways. He wasn't really a morning person to begin with. She had noticed though, in the last week, something was chewing at him. She didn't pry, but she had been looking at him more closely, sidelong glances in the morning over coffee before they both went their separate ways, him to the office, her off to the automail shop.

An occasional, "You ok?"

Followed by the usual, "I'm fine."

He was always fine.

Until he wasn't.

The monsters who stalked him in the night, dissipated in the dawn. He looked at the clock on his desk. 2:14. He exhaled, unscrewed the cap of the bottle, inhaled, and took a long swallow. Exhale. Repeat. Twice, thrice. He sat and waited. Waited until the numbness set in. Waited. Nothing. Another, longer swallow. His fingers tingled. He took another. He could feel it burn down his throat, into his fingers of his left hand, down his thighs to his foot. The state alchemist salary allowed for him to buy good alcohol at least, even though it also supplied the ample fodder for his nightmares.

He stood, swayed slightly. His mind was quiet. The demons had been drowned for a little bit at least. Slowly, carefully, he left the darkened study, and as quietly he could, headed for the stairs and blissful oblivion of his bed and Winry's warmth.

Ed stumbled into the room, no longer careful of the squeaking door or creaking floor. Winry stirred as he fell into bed. He didn't bother getting under the covers as he was flushed and warm with alcohol. He slipped an arm over her waist and puller her closer to his chest. He breathed in the scent of her hair, her skin, just _her_. She was home to him, quiet, calm, peace. Everything tingled, felt fuzzy around the edges. He felt a slight discomfort in his right arm, a pinch, a tingle, but his alcohol-soaked brain told him to ignore it. Like he had been. He simply shifted and drifted off to sleep.

"Ed… Ed… ED. You're heavy, let me up." Winry tried pushing at his sleeping form. His right arm was over her and it was heavy. He was out cold. She prodded him again with an elbow and finally elicited a groan from him. He rolled away from her, flat onto his back. She leaned over and inhaled deeply. Alcohol. Again. He was practically dripping it from his pores. Her brow furrowed. Something was up with him and he wasn't talking about it. The last several nights she'd woken up to an empty bed next to her, the blankets cool enough that he'd clearly left a while ago, and yet she always awoke in the morning to him back in bed with her. Something was keeping him awake at night, if only he'd talk to her. Maybe she could help. She hadn't questioned the alcohol yet, letting him think for now at least that she didn't know. She didn't push, he'd come to her when he was ready. Pushing led to fighting, which led to drinking, for both of them, and occasionally drunk make up sex. That ending she was ok with. However, lately it had just simply led to silence from Ed. He was withdrawing and it was driving her crazy to not know why, or how to fix it.

Slowly she got out of bed, stretched, felt her back crack and pop. Late nights at the shop were catching up with her. Only a few more and she should be done with the newest limb she was making, at least, as long as there were no more hang ups or back ordered parts to wait for. Then she and Ed could actually spend some time together. Maybe open him up a bit and pull him back from the darkness that had been growing. She looked at his sleeping form. The lines around the eyes and brow that had seemed so permanent lately had eased away, and he looked the 23 he was, peaceful. She reached out a hand and brushed the bangs away from his face. He slumbered on. It was the first day off he'd had in a while and he deserved a rest. She certainly wasn't going to wake him when he finally looked relaxed.

Ed awoke to a headache. Not that he was surprised on that account. He stretched and felt the same sensation that his blurry mind had picked up as he was falling asleep. His right arm tingled. No. It itched. His fingertips, cold and metallic, itched. He shook it out. Phantom feelings weren't terribly common for him, but every now and then they showed up as the beast they were. Still it was there. He flopped back on the bed, and slowly clenched and relaxed his hand while looking at it. His brain was telling him sensations were there that weren't. Sometimes he could trick it back by simply watching the hand and arm move, the hand and arm that were connected to nerves that still worked, still felt. The clock on the nightstand to his right read 9:38. Winry was long gone to the shop and he had the quiet house to himself. He could get up and try to be productive on his day off, or he could lay in bed a while longer and pretend to not be hungover and lie to himself he would get up and be productive in a few minutes. He opted for the latter.

The sensation in his right arm was morphing. The itching he was so hard trying to ignore morphed into tingling. The tingling into burning. _Fuck_. This was going to be a rough one. His left hand worked the muscles around the port on the right shoulder. Those muscles felt hard as stone under his fingers. He pressed down on a pressure point, trying to distract his brain from the mangled nerves on that arm. The sharp pain cleared his mind for a moment but then it was gone, and the pain magnified. _Fucking shit_. He wished briefly Winry was there. The few times phantom pain had overtaken him, she was a quiet well of comfort to him. She never asked him to talk, just let him curl in on himself and wrapped her arms around him. Let him know he wasn't alone.

He rolled over, tried to settle into a comfortable position. Maybe he could sleep it off. He certainly felt tired enough from his bender last night. He yanked the sheets haphazardly over himself. _It hurts._ _It hurts. It hurts. _The mantra slipped into his head. He ground his teeth. _Well fucking fine_. He wasn't going to sleep anymore. Maybe a hot shower would ease the sharp pain. He shed his clothes as he stepped into the bathroom. Ed glanced at his face in the mirror. He looked exhausted. Bags under his eyes, his face drawn, the white of his pursed lips. Amber eyes that had seen far too much in his few years. He yanked his braid out with his left hand. His right shoulder betrayed none of the pain rippling up his arm on the exterior. Old scars didn't belay the new damage underneath.

Ed stepped into the steaming shower, turning his back to the spray. Soon it was hot enough it was bordering on painful. Good. Maybe the pain would pull him away from his arm. He let the water hammer his back. He leaned forward, left hand pressed against the shower wall, right clenching and releasing, watching, hoping it would ease. He let the blistering heat wash over him until it began to run cold. How long he stood there he didn't know but still, the unrelenting feeling of pain worked its way up and down the nerves in his shoulder and back.

He gasped as sharp pain grabbed the air from his lungs. Breathing through gritted teeth he wrapped himself in a towel. _It hurts. It hurts. It hurts._ He dried himself and put clothes on in the bedroom. No point in real clothes since it was his day off, he was dressed in a tank top and sweats. Mismatched feet padded down the stairs to the kitchen. He cradled his right arm against his abdomen. Any movement of his shoulder sent ripples of pain through him that took the air out of him. He paced around as he waited for coffee. His head hurt; his hand screamed. With a shaking left hand, he poured coffee into a mug and sipped it. He set the mug down on the counter and continued his track around the kitchen. Back and forth, occasionally shaking out his arm hoping, hoping, hoping, that whatever was out of place and pissed off, triggering this phantom pain would fix itself. _Where was Winry? Shouldn't she be home for lunch soon? _

His brain was foggy, exhausted, stuck. Stuck on the pain. _It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. _Ed had always been a muscle through it person, but this was consuming. Probably the worst round of phantom pain in years. Well, at least since Winry had replaced his automail arm and leg with the lighter carbon version.

His mind began to slip to back to the day he and Al had tried to bring their mother back. When he lost a leg, and traded an arm for Al's soul. That pain had been blinding. He'd kept his clarity long enough to bring Al's soul back, but the few weeks after were a blur in his memory of pain. _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts._ The thought reverberated around his head. He paced around the kitchen longer, coffee long forgotten. The stabbing pain continued, nonplused by his silent pleading.

"Fuck," he snarled as he slammed his left fist into the cabinet. The wood splintered under his rage. For a brief second, he felt only the pain his left hand. He looked at the split knuckles, the shattered wood. Then though, the pain in the right took over, creeping from hand, to wrist, to elbow, to shoulder, to his spine and back up his neck. It felt like being slashed with knives, his flesh splitting and bleeding, nerves exposed and raw. He was so tired of pain. He'd had more than a lifetime's worth already. This was simply a cruel reminder of the mistakes of his youth.

His vision faded from the pain, ears ringing. He looked at his right arm, and saw only a stump, pouring blood onto the floor. He felt the color drain from his face and gasped, stumbling backwards, tripping over his pant leg and slamming into the ground.

He screwed his eyes shut and took quick panicked breaths. "No, no, no, no…." he whispered to himself. This wasn't happening. He'd already gone through the agonizing surgery; he'd already done the trauma of having to be awake when the port was installed. The screaming, blinding pain. Not again. Not again. Not again. The pain slammed into him, consuming him. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, trying to pull himself back from the edge.

The front door opened. Winry was starving. She wondered if Ed was up yet, as the house was quiet. "Hey lazy bones," she called out, only to be met with silence. Maybe he wasn't up yet? His boots were still by the door, jacket over the chair, so he was home. She figured she'd head to the kitchen, make some lunch and bring it to him in bed. That would surely cheer him up.

She slipped her shoes off and padded into the kitchen. She gasped when she came around the corner and saw the shattered cabinet. _What the hell? _Broken wood and blood were on the counter, a bloody hand print on the wall leading into the hall. A smashed mug and cold coffee on the floor.

"Ed?! Ed, where are you?!" She sprinted down the hall, following the unsettling marks of blood down the hallway. She nearly fell when she saw the bathroom light on, her socks kept her sliding across the smooth wood floors. "ED!"

He looked up at her, eyes far away. "Winry?" He asked softly, reaching up towards her with a bloody left hand. He sat on floor, knees tucked up against his chest, back to the tub. His face was white, cheeks tear stained. His right arm limp at his side; fingers splayed on the floor. His hair hung around him like a curtain. She walked over to him cautiously. The mirror was smashed, the counter dented where it looked like he'd struck it with a metal fist.

"Can you make it stop? Please… please make it stop," he pleaded to her as she knelt next to him.

"Ed, what's going on? What happened in here, the kitchen?"

"My arm. My arm, it hurts so fucking bad, Winry. It feels like the day I tried to bring Mom back. Please, please make it stop. Please…" He leaned into her, burying his face against her chest. Her arms wrapped around him, grounding him from the flash backs he was slipping into. "I tried to distract myself, the pain in my real hand helped for a moment, and then it was back. It feels like my nerves are on fire. It just… fucking hurts. Nothing's helping. I can't... I can't do this." His voice cracked.

"I'm not sure if I can Ed, but I'll try ok?" She stroked his hair with one hand before sliding her hand down to his neck and massaging the muscles there. They were rock hard. She could feel the tension in his body, he was nearly rigid against her. A shiver ran through him. "Come on, let me clean up your hand and see what I can do."

She stood and pulled him to his feet, which was far harder to do that she anticipated. He was _heavy_ and seemed to be struggling to make himself function. His breathing was still ragged, but the terrifyingly far away look seemed to be receding. She led him to the living room and pushed him down onto the couch. "I'll be right back, just stay here ok?" She grabbed the throw off the back of the couch and tucked it around his shoulders being very careful to not touch his right side. He sat immobile, head bowed, eyes on the floor. A tremor ran through him and she saw him clench his jaw.

Her mind raced. If he was in this much pain, she figured examining his right arm would be out of the question. She couldn't remember the last time he'd fallen apart from pain, and she'd seen him shot, stabbed, thrown around like a rag doll in fights and still get up and swing back. This was unnerving for her. He hated medication as well, she knew from when he had his automail installed. She could offer pain meds, or sedation, both of which she had in her repair kit. Or… or, she could slip it into some coffee and skip dealing with him trying to refuse it. That might be easier, for she was pretty sure if she even tried to move his right arm, he'd come unglued or black out at the moment.

_Fuck it, I'm drugging him. That's the only way I'll be able to see what's going on with his arm without causing him agony._ She grabbed her repair kit from her work room which she set on the table, carefully got another mug from the broken cabinet (one without wood shards in the bottom) and poured a mug of coffee. She guessed at Ed's weight, factoring that he'd been drinking a lot lately, and poured the clear liquid into the coffee. It was so black and strong she doubted the bitterness of the sedative would stand out to him. Plus, he was pretty out of it.

Ed sat on the couch oblivious to Winry's sounds in the kitchen. _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, _permeated his brain like fire, stifling out any other thoughts. He couldn't even process his left hand which should have ached given the damaged he'd done to it. The only thing he could focus on was his right hand and the pain that was sending tremors through him. He just wanted it to fucking stop. He'd take broken bones over this nerve pain. How nerves that weren't even there could hurt his much, he didn't know.

Winry reappeared, handing him another mug of coffee. He took it with his battered left hand and looked up at her through his bangs. She wore her poker face, the one she put on before doing something they both knew would hurt him. He drank the coffee without question. He knew she'd put something in it, but he didn't care. Fuck, he didn't care if it killed him at this point, anything to get away from the pain.

Winry blinked, she wasn't expecting Ed to down it like that. He handed the mug back to her, and she set it on the table at the end of the couch. Her kit lay on the floor by his feet, while she disappeared into the bathroom for a moment to get the first aid kit for his flesh. When she came back, she sat next to him on the couch, gently pulling his left hand into her lap. He watched her oh so gently clean the battered knuckles, wipe away the blood that was on the back of his hand and his palm, and work her way up to his wrist. Her fingers were gentle and moved deftly, carefully, as she applied ointment to the wounds and wrapped it. Her hands faded in and out of focus, and Ed blinked, trying to fight the sedative even though he knew it would help. Old habits die hard. The screaming pain was beginning to fade to a dull roar. He swayed when she moved his hand back. Winry stood in front of him, and helped him out of the tank top, very, very carefully, sliding his good arm out, pulling it over his head and down the automail one. She helped him lay down, right arm at his side where she could get to it. She tucked a pillow under his head, tucked his feet under a blanket, and then sat on the floor stroking his forehead waiting for him to fade. Gradually the clipped, pained breaths gave way to longer, even ones. She waited still. She wanted him out cold before removing the automail.

She thought back the boy she'd first worked on. Young. Terrified. Battered and broken in body and spirit. The man lying on the couch in front of her was so far removed from the boy he used to be. He had grown up in ways she'd never expected. He'd gone from being a childhood brother, to an awkward and bashful friend when she worked on him, to the defiant, angry teenager who would fight anyone at the drop of hat, to the man who became both her lover and protector. He'd always downplayed pain or discomfort in her presence either out of stubbornness or pride. Seeing him feel this shattered hurt her, and she was determined to fix it.

She drew up a syringe of pain medication, capped it, and set it next to her. If he stirred at all once she started, she was knocking his ass back out. He'd be too drugged to fight her at this point. Theoretically. She took the automail hand in hers and pulled it onto the little makeshift table she'd set up next him. She examined it inch by inch, joint by joint, but saw nothing on the exterior that gave hints to where the pain was coming from and _why_ it was so bad. If it were phantom, there was little she could do. Part of her hoped it was the automail. That she could fix. Phantom? Other than drug him through it, there wasn't much she could do but be there for him.

The only thing left would be to remove the arm so she could pull it apart and see what was going on. Maybe it wasn't the arm? Maybe the port? If Ed had done something to strain it recently, he hadn't said, but then again, he tried to avoid telling her as long as he could, so she wasn't pissed at him for breaking her automail _again. _She worked her way through disconnecting it, stealing glances at him, counting breaths.

She had the two major "nerves" left to disconnect. Her gut told her something was wrong with one of them and that's why Ed was in so much pain. This was far too much to be phantom pain. He'd had it before, but never been crippled like this from it. It had to be physical. Had to be.

But that left her stuck with not knowing which one until she disconnected them. He shifted slightly. She looked up at the clock, not realizing that in her efforts to be gentle she had been far slower than normal and was probably running into the tail end of the sedative. He'd never been a cheap drunk. If she stuck him now, he wouldn't wake when she disconnected the nerves, but she also needed to know if he was still painful without the arm on. She could always let him sleep it off, but if he woke and was still painful, she'd be pushing it to give him another dose so close together. She worried her lower lip in her teeth. He groaned in his sleep; he was coming out of it. She needed to make a decision.

Taking a deep breath, she loosened both nerves. Ed moaned. In one swift motion, she disconnected both at the same time, and a sound like a wounded animal ripped from his chest. His eyes snapped open and his chest heaved. She winced as she saw tears gather in the corner of his eyes. Panting he looked at her, his face pleading for relief.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Ed. But I need to know if it still hurts, because if so, I'm going to have to examine the port and if not, it's probably your arm and I can fix it. Is the pain less, more, or the same as before?"

Ed's brain was still slow. The sedation wasn't gone completely, but the pain of the disconnect slammed his brain awake. He tried to sort the sounds into words. "Same," he breathed after a minute.

She frowned and began carefully removing the plating around his shoulder. At the sharp intake of breath, she looked at him, and asked, "Do you want morphine now or can you hold out long enough for me to find the problem? If you can hold out, it'll make this faster, but if you can't, it's ok." She found his wrist and squeezed it gently. She searched his face. He ground his teeth and nodded at her before looking away, his bandaged hand grabbing hers tightly for a moment. With incredible skill, she stripped away the rest of the outer plating as quickly as she could and began to examine port. Screwdriver between her teeth, she felt for anything out of the ordinary. Her finger ran over a rough spot and suddenly Ed lurched upright with an unholy yell and vomited over the edge of the couch before his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled.

Winry swore. That was bad. Somehow a nerve had pulled away from the socket. What she had hit that felt like a piece of spaghetti was an exposed nerve. That would explain the crippling pain and why it was just progressively getting worse. This was going to suck. There was no way he'd not been feeling this before it got bad. She'd lay into him about letting her know when things hurt sooner, although this may be enough of lesson for him.

Maybe.

Probably not.

She grabbed the syringe and after quickly occluding one of the big veins in his left arm, pushed the morphine in. That should keep him out long enough to fix the problem.

She hoped.

Ed was warm. So warm. His brain was fuzzy, but that happy, relaxed fuzzy that came with a huge dose of morphine. He let himself drift in and out, hearing soft voices here and there, but never pulling up out of the haze enough to process what was said. He let himself float, detached from everything, his brain quiet for the first time in weeks. Maybe if he didn't try to wake up, he could just stay here, peaceful. He drifted back into the dreamless oblivion.

Winry wiped her brow. Her legs were cramped, her hands as well and her back hurt. But she was almost done. Ed hadn't stirred once since she pushed the morphine. She had maybe dosed him heavier than she should have, but it'd kept him out none the less. She couldn't stand seeing him in pain. She'd called Al a few hours ago and asked him to grab things from the shop for her and come over. He sat behind her now, worry etched into his face. Occasionally handing her something, but mostly watching Ed. Al was under orders that if Ed woke or moved, he was told Ed down and still until Winry could finish. That was not something either of them wanted to do. Al had seen Ed come up from morphine swinging before when he was disoriented in the hospital, and while he only had one arm to strike with, neither Al nor Winry wanted to be on the receiving end of an unchecked blow from Ed.

"DONE!" Winry cried, triumphant. She'd fixed the damage to the port, the nerve, and the few frayed pieces in the hand that had probably started the pain. She'd reconnected Ed's arm without waking him, without Al having to hold him down. _Thank goodness._

Al looked at her and smiled. He'd been shocked when he'd come over and seen the destruction of the kitchen and bathroom. He'd cleaned that up while Winry worked fervently on Ed. He hadn't seen Ed lose control like that in a long while. His stoic brother didn't let the shield down often, especially not where someone would see. He stood and pulled Winry to her feet. She stretched, joints popping loudly.

"He's lucky to have you, and lucky you came home for lunch." Al said, smiling at her. He didn't want to imagine what the house would have looked like had Ed gone the whole day until Winry found him. Or what Ed would have looked like if he was already so bad by lunch time. God forbid his brother ask for help… He always had to be the fixer, the shoulder for the burden, carrier of guilt and ugly deeds; never the one who needed help. Al had seen him deal with pain like that only once, and it had been ugly, with Ed trying to drown it with alcohol and pilfered morphine until he could get to Winry. He'd forbidden Al to tell Winry how bad it was and taken the beating she gave without flinching just so she'd fix it. Al wasn't sure if Ed ever even told her about that time, and just how scary he had looked until it was fixed. Maybe Al would drop a word to Havoc or Hawkeye to watch out for Ed at work for a bit. Well. Ok, maybe just Hawkeye. She was incredibly discreet and observant. Havoc, not so much of either, even though he cared for Ed as well.

Ed woke up well after dark had settled. Winry and Al had hovered around the living room for quite a bit waiting for him to come around, before finally settling on dinner instead of pacing. Winry was still ravenous. She had forgotten lunch when she'd seen the state Ed was in when she got home. Pasta boiled away on the stove while she sat at the kitchen table, gnawing on a heel of crusty bread. Al stood at the stove working diligently on a sauce. Two beers were open, and Winry took a drink of hers. She rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. What a day. She'd gotten a concerned call from her receptionist shortly after she'd called Al, since she hadn't returned from lunch. Patients were shuffled around for later days in the week, when Kelly explained that Winry had a family emergency. She hoped it was over. While everything told her she should have fixed everything even remotely painful for Ed, her gut still twisted on "what if?" She'd feel much better when he came around.

A groan from the living room pulled her attention. Al turned the stove off and they walked in to see Ed blinking slowly. "Wha… what happened?" His brain was foggy and his words were thick and slow. Winry crouched down next to him, taking his left hand in one of hers, her other stroking the bangs out of his face.

"How are you feeling brother?" Al asked, a slight tone of trepidation to his voice.

"Tired," was the only response as Ed closed his eyes. He took a couple of deep breaths and moved the fingers of his right hand. Winry and Al watched his face and his hand respectively. No grinding of teeth, no swearing, no gasps of pain. He opened his eyes again, searching for Winry's. "Thank you," he breathed, his relief palpable.

She rapped his forehead gently with her knuckles. "Next time, tell me before you hit a level of pain that you're destroying things, like your good hand. You don't have to suffer Ed. Stop "sucking it up," and accept the fact that you're human and shit hurts sometimes, ok? Tell me if your in pain, even if you think it's phantom pain." He closed his eyes and nodded.

"This time it wasn't and I could have stopped it a whole lot sooner if you'd just said something. Come on, up you get," Winry took one arm, Al the other, and they heaved him to his feet. He took a few unsteady steps working the last of the drug haze out, before he wrapped an arm around Winry's shoulders, pulled her close and kissed her temple. She leaned into the embrace. As stupidly stubborn as he could be, he was always grateful for her and showed it.

The three made their way into the kitchen as Winry's stomach growled loudly. A good meal and good company would settle all three of them. It always had.

* * *

Well, first story in a long time...

Drop me a line if you got this far. A simple "Hey this was good" or "This is terrible," either way, thanks for letting me steal a few minutes of your day.


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